


Myoclonic Jerk

by TheBlackestFrost



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Dreaming, F/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 17:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackestFrost/pseuds/TheBlackestFrost
Summary: On another road, Laura finds herself as close to dreaming as the dead can get.She's not alone.
Relationships: Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney
Comments: 15
Kudos: 50





	Myoclonic Jerk

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following prompt:
> 
> One-shot of Laura dreaming of being Essie and tussling with her Leprechaun in ways that Laura's always wanted to? Like Essie and Laura's desires boiling into one hot mess of a dream? (Bonus points if the dream seeps into Sweeney's sleep as well. And he Realizes Where It's Coming From.)
> 
> Not sure how well this has been executed but here we go.

The highway is dark apart from their headlights, revealing little more than a narrow sliver of the path ahead.

It reminds her of lying in bed and feeling herself slowly shift from wakefulness to slumber.

When she was alive she used to love the moments just before falling asleep, when the world would start to shift and her thoughts would start to wander from the linear into a more ambiguous, meandering pathway, somewhere to ease her between being awake and slipping off into dreams.

She doesn’t have that much anymore. The dead have little need to sleep, and her mind rarely offers her more than the incredibly linear to the point of being tunnel vision objective of getting back some semblance of life.

Still, she can sometimes find a place of rest if the conditions are just exactly right.

The radio is low and murmuring out something quiet, a guitar strumming, and she listens for a moment as the words shift over her.

_Her eyes and words are so icy_

_Oh but she burns_

_Like rum on the fire_

_Hot and fast and angry as she can be_

A low sound next to her briefly draws her attention, and she realises he’s humming. He clearly doesn’t realise he’s doing it consciously and she studies him for a moment in the dark of the car. The cuts on his cheek are healing and he’s clearly in another world as he drives. His hum is deep and mostly in tune.

It’s a nice sound, she decides.

She closes her eyes and lets her mind wander as the car thrums around them. 

She thinks of the road.

His low humming.

His big hands on the wheel.

_The cold prison wall against her cheek._

_She looks out the little window, well aware that it will show nothing more than a clouded night sky, and sighs. She is lonely. _

_“Are you there still?”_

_His chuckle is low, sending a thrum through her body, and Essie feels her skin begin to prickle with goosebumps._

_He is there._

_Suddenly, and yet she’s not surprised. _

_She stares at him. “How did you get in here?”_

_His smile is enigmatic, she can’t read much, so she just takes him in. He’s tall, wild looking and slightly worse for wear, and yet somehow she knows exactly what she’s looking at (_Is his hair long and tangled or shorn close to the sides of his head?)_. He's the creature of fairy tales, her grandmother's stories and warnings, collector of milk and bread, here in the flesh. _

_“You been watching over me then?”_

_He shrugs at that, gesturing to the prison walls. “Not that well, it would seem. Blow both ways, we do.”_

_Her eyes run over broad shoulders and she smiles. _

_"Mayhaps I've not been showing proper deference."_

_His eyes are fire and the weight of his stare is heavier than the chains they brought her here in. She's far too aware of him, towering over her as she sits on the edge of the bed, smelling of the forest and salt water, of the cliffs she grew up on. He's silent and she takes that as a reason to continue, letting her smile grow as the weight of his stare makes her feel warm and silky. _

_“I could try now.”_

_His eyes narrow a moment and she takes the opportunity to stand, pulling her dress over her head. Even in the low light of her cell, even in prison, she knows she is beautiful. His eyes run over narrow shoulders and a lean waist, high breasts and her warm cheeks (_are there autopsy scars or is her skin smooth and unblemished?).

_She takes a step towards him._

_The little cot is barely big enough for her, let alone for him to stretch out, but she’s nothing if not resourceful. He looks amused as she reaches up to push his shoulders, waiting for him to sit and then stands in front of him (_or are they in the car, seats pushed back as far as possible as she pulls herself over him?)_._

_He reaches out to stroke at her wild red curls (_or are they brown waves?_) and she smiles, seating herself in his lap and planting a leg on either side of his hips._

_His voice is husky but serious. “Are you looking to change your luck, lass? This an offering then?”_

_She laughs, shaking her head_. _“I believe this _is_ my luck changing.”_

_He looks more than a little surprised at that and she laughs again before kissing him. His lips are dry but soft, beard scratching at her face, and she smiles against his mouth as she tastes spiced milk and mead (_or is it whisky and cigarettes?)_. _

_His hands run over her back, calloused and surprisingly gentle, moving to circle her ribs and stroke the undersides of her breasts. She moans and hums her approval into his mouth, grinding against his crotch, the hardness there making her shift and gasp._

_He pulls back, gripping her hips to still her movements and grinning wolfishly at her hooded eyes and open mouth (_she’s not his, or is she? has she always been?)_._

_“No wonder they’ve locked you up, girl, mouth like that must get you in and out of trouble like clockwork.” _

_She shoots him a defiant look before slipping to kneel between his legs in one fluid movement, shifting his breeches aside. He lets out a growl as she strokes him, her eyes wide as she takes in the sight of him, and her satisfied smile at the hanging groan he makes is hidden as she takes him into her mouth. Those calloused hands are tangled in her hair now, gentle and firm all at once, and she rubs herself against him as she takes him into her mouth, the harsh material of his breeches rough against her sensitive nipples._

_She moves experimentally, taking in as much of him as she can, gagging against the thick length and going back for more as she hears his breathing become ragged. When she gags again he shifts to pull her away and she holds on, lips stretched wide around him, and the defiance buys her another minute of tasting him before he’s yanking her to her feet, hand still tangled in her hair as he pulls her upright in front of him._

_He kisses her, pulling her flush against him, before gripping her arms and making his way across her collarbone, her breast, kicking and biting and feasting on her nipples as his fingers reach down to stroke at her sex. She's wet and keening, struggling to push against those long fingers and cursing a blue streak as he brings her to the edge again and again, backing away just before she can fall. Teeth scrape over her nipples, her stomach twists, and when he finally pushes two thick fingers inside her she cries out. _

_She raises a leg to give him between access, his thumb assaulting her clit as she grinds against his hand, his lips against her neck. _

_"Fall, Essie." (_come for me, love_) _

_She does as he tells her, gripping his shoulders and keening out into the night. _

_As she comes down she becomes aware of him, both his hands wrapped around her ribcage, holding her tightly enough to stay upright, tightly enough to bruise (_and he wants to bruise her, leave his marks all over her, make sure anyone who looks at her can see she's his, have her leave her bruises and cuts on him so they'll know he's hers_). _

_Essie stares and feels the prickle of fear in her throat. _

_His eyes are wild, breathing harsh, and she shivers at the size of him, her height while sitting, the hand keeping her in place. For a moment she’s in over her head, all too aware of her mother and grandmother’s warnings about the fundamental nature of magical creatures, their possessiveness, their tempers. _

_But Essie is resourceful.“Are you displeased, milord?” (_don’t pretend you didn’t love it, Ginger Minge).

_His chuckle is sharp and so are his eyes, seeing through her easily and not minding the survivor streak he sees there. “Ain’t had an offering like that in a while.”_

_Essie is quick, eyes wide but eyebrow raised. “P’rhaps they worry you'd give them lockjaw, milord?”_

_His laugh, surprised and deep and rough, is the only warning she has before what happens next._

_He’s up faster than she has seen a person move and then she’s pressed against the cold stone wall, crying out at the shock of the temperature. Those big hands are spreading her legs and gripping her thighs until she's halfway up the wall and clinging to him. The cold stone at her back and warmth of his hands are making her shiver for different reasons _(huge and warm against cold and dead flesh). _She feels him pressing against her centre and whimpers needily. _

_He grips her jaw for a minute as if staring down her throat and into her soul. Her cry is silenced as she watches those wild eyes, the browns and golds and greens of the forest, and sees the only chance she’ll be offered to get out of this, the pause that signals her opportunity to choose, to give freely._

_She leans forward, nipping at his bottom lip, and his grin is positively feral. They have a compact. _

_He pushes into her, giving her little time to adjust to the size and spurred on by the liquid cry she lets out into the prison cell. It’s a molten, golden thing and he answers by crashing his lips against her, swallowing their panting breaths and keening sighs. Her nails carve tattoos over his shoulders, pulling harshly at his hair as she clings to him, grinding back down onto him (_is this how she’d fuck him, or would she demand to be on top, riding and crying out and refusing to let him touch her just to see the pain in his eyes)_._

_His pace is gruelling but she’s matching his thrust for thrust, her mewls and keens a rising crescendo against the sounding of their bodies connecting roughly, against his grunts of near pained pleasure at the tight walls gripping him (_he wouldn’t worry about breaking her, would know somehow that she wasn’t a delicate flower, but made of steel and grit. he'd be wanting to leave marks all over her magnificent body, dark enough bruises to match the marks he’s leaving on her soul)_. _

_She feels herself climbing, that coiling heat tightening to the point of pain, and then her head hits the wall behind her and she tips over, unable to see the hazel eyes devouring every second of her giving herself over, the clenching of her walls dragging a growl from his throat as he follows her over the edge. _

_“Fuck, Laura.”_

Mad Sweeney jerks awake, heart racing.

He’s in a car, the last one he’s stolen, and it’s dark out. So far so good.

He starts to remember.

At some point he’s pulled the car over into a thatch of trees, pulling his cap onto his face to sleep before setting off again. He pulls the cap off his face as the dream dominates every neuron in his head and he hears the echoes of pleasure and pain in his ears and can practically taste those firm nipples between his teeth and-

Fuck.

She's in the passenger seat, still and silent, and despite this he knows that it’s not his dream bleeding into into his conciousness and infecting him, that he’s just somehow caught the tail end of some temporal disturbance, something glistening and rich. Someone else's dream. 

Hers.

She shifts in the seat as if chasing a phantom sensation, and he watches as her lips part and she lets out a single breathy pant, followed by a mewling sigh that will haunt his dreams for years to come.

He wonders if it’s possible to store a sound in the hoard, to keep it there like any other piece of treasure he’s collected, to return to it and hear it again and again and again, like a chant, like a mantra, like a fucking prayer.

He starts the car, desperate for anything to do with his hands.

She wakes up moments later, the movement of the car jerking her awake, and he can't quite help himself.

“Pleasant dreams, Dead Wife?”

She’s staring at him with wide eyes as if she can’t quite process or connect properly to this reality, and he struggles to keep his face still, well aware that the wrong movement will likely lead to blame or accusation or having his ass kicked so hard it’ll make him wish he was a masochist.

He can’t stop the twitch of a smirk at his lips.

Well, more of a masochist.

Before she can react with violence he pulls two smokes from the hoard, offering one to her with eyes as close to innocent as he’s physically able of mimicking.

"Need a smoke, love?"

She accepts the cigarette, pointedly not touching his hand, and lights it.

She looks out the window and he steals glances at her as the radio picks back up, quiet and gentle, and it’s almost enough to hide the racing of his heart.

_The way she tells me I’m hers, and she’s mine_

_Open hand or closed fist would be fine_

_The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine_

**Author's Note:**

> Song is Cherry Wine by Hozier (the whole album is very them, I don't think I'm the first to say this, having seen it in other stories/titles etc but hot damn guys wtf).


End file.
